


Cherry Soda [title is subject to change]

by proudlygoingnowhere



Category: Original Work
Genre: I'll add more tags as this story goes on, Literature Nerd, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, THIS ISN'T A FANFICTION, mlm bisexual relationship, photography nerd, this is just a long-ass backstory for my OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14442933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proudlygoingnowhere/pseuds/proudlygoingnowhere
Summary: Nico Mejia is introverted and self-conscious. Cal Gibson is outgoing and confident. Nico's sole interests are writing and poetry. Cal's obsessed with school and even more obsessed with photography. Despite their differences, a friendship sparks between them, and leads to more drama and self-discovery than they have ever experienced in their entire lives.(Written in first-person, present-tense, with Nico as the narrator.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!! Thought I'd share my OC's backstory on AO3 so that everyone can read it. I hope you like them! If you would like to create artwork/writing pieces based off of my characters, feel free to do so with proper credit!
> 
> My Instagram & Tumblr: grayskyluna
> 
> Enjoy the story!

Weird things happen when you’re in high school. My mother has been drilling the idea into my head that the teenage years are when you’re spending the most time experimenting with identity, suffering friendship crises, and staying up way too late crying over how you have three essays due in two days, all of which you have yet to start. It’s a mini-world that pretty much everyone experiences, if only for four grueling years, but in that span of time you go through so many different things that it feels like a lifetime.

Two months into senior year, I haven’t really found myself falling into any of those categories (except for maybe the last one), and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even doing this high school thing properly. I mean, I do have a small group of really close friends; I drink coffee way more times in a day than my brain can handle; I quietly scream about every single test that gets thrown my way and end up drowning in unfinished piles of homework. But at the end of the day, something always feels out of place. 

I’ve brought up issues like this with my best friend several times, and even though her advice is not always ideal, I take what I can get. When it comes to guidance, Josie Martin is like a wild card: she will either solve your problem in an instant, or leave you hanging high and dry. There’s no in between. 

“You know what will cure you of your so-called anti-highschool routine?” she says to me one morning. “ _ Homecoming _ .”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“If there’s anything more stereotypically high school than jock-and-cheerleader couples, it’s the homecoming game,” Josie responds, giving me a matter-of-fact look. “Yo, Jason,” she calls to a fellow senior who is passing by. “Help me convince my  _ terribly introverted  _ best friend to go to the game on Friday.”

“You should totally go to the game on Friday,” Jason says. It’s really not a very encouraging statement, but he flashes an encouraging smile at me before ducking into a classroom.

I don’t know what prompts me to say yes. Maybe it’s the desperate puppy eyes Josie is giving me, or the prospect of getting to stay out late, or Jason’s smile, but suddenly I’m saying the words of affirmation, and that’s that. 

“I can’t believe I finally managed to get  _ Nico Mejia _ to go to an actual after-school event,” Josie mutters over and over, clearly pleased with herself. She looks up at me and grins. “You’re going to have so much fun, my friend.”

_ So much fun _ is definitely an overstatement, and Josie should know me well enough to realize that. I’m going to be sitting on a cold, hard, metal bench for three hours, miserably huddled in the depths of my jacket, while everyone else will be cheering so enthusiastically that the entire stadium will shake uncontrollably. In my mind, not a single part of that sounds any fun.

However, I admit, being in my last year of high school does alter my view on some of these typically-lame activities. Might as well attend them while I still can.

Friday evening approaches faster than I expect, and before I know it I’m crammed in between Josie Martin and Samantha Rosenberg on the bleachers above the football field, the stadium lights burning into my eyes. Right now, the game is 10-6 in our favor, and it’s only the beginning of the second quarter.

...Not that I care.

The only part I care about is the fact that I’m stuck here for another two freaking hours, and I can’t think of anything worse than having to spend it watching a bunch of sweaty high school boys tackle each other so violently that they’re all destined for concussion checkups. I sigh and bury my head in my hands, slowly regretting my decision to come. If I’d stayed home, I’d be curled up contently under my covers, writing poems and listening to The 1975. 

I suddenly wish I had brought some sort of reading material.

Just as halftime begins, someone behind me screams, and in two seconds flat my back is soaked in bright red cherry soda. The liquid runs down my spine and soaks the waistline of my pants. 

“What the hell…?”

I whirl around and instantly bump heads with Cal Gibson, who’s bending over and picking up his now-empty soda cup. He lifts his head to look at me, and the stadium lights make his eyes electric blue.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry,” he says hurriedly, looking at my soaked clothes and then at his shoes and back again. “I didn’t mean…” He trails off.

“It’s-it’s okay,” I try to assure him. (It isn’t okay.) “My clothes should be fine, I’ll just go to the bathroom and wash this out.” (It’s red soda, it’s not going to wash out.)

“Are you sure?” Cal asks skeptically. He looks down at his pants, which have also turned bright red. “Well, I might as well go with you.”

We climb down the bleachers and head to the bathroom. Cal looks at his feet the whole time, quietly cursing himself. I feel sort of bad for him, and I want to ask what even happened back there, but I stow it away for later.

As we walk, it occurs to me that I only know three things about Cal: one, he’s such a good kid that he’s probably never gotten in trouble for anything in his life; two, he’s bisexual (at least according to recent gossip); and three, he’s one of the smartest kids in our class and he’ll most likely end up being Valedictorian by the end of the year. Cal and I only have one class together, which is English, and even though we’ve gone to school with each other for the past three years, we’ve never had the opportunity to properly speak to one another. One reason is because I feel like I’m terrible at keeping up my end of a conversation, and another reason is because Samantha thinks he’s sort of a suck-up. He’s the kind of student who spends his Friday nights with his nose in a book at home, rather than in a Solo cup at a social gathering.

So then why is he here at homecoming?

We run to the sinks and soak handfuls of paper towels under the faucets. No matter how hard I scrub my jacket, the stain will not budge. Cal suggests using soap, and I watch his hands as he takes my jacket and dunks it under the water, vigorously rubbing at the stain. It takes over five minutes to make any sort of significant progress, and by then, Cal is too tired to continue.

“That’s all I can get off for now,” he says, handing me the jacket. “And again, I’m really, really sorry, the juniors behind me were fooling around and one of them bumped my arm and… well… _ this _ happened.” He motions to his pants, which are also just as stained as before.

“Cal, it’s really nothing, don’t worry,” I reply. 

“I still feel bad, though.”

“Don’t worry.”

Awkward silence.

“So… I never knew you were the sporty type,” I say, trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” Cal chuckles. “Just here to take some photos for yearbook.”

I cock my head to the side, sensing that something’s missing. “Where’s your camera?”

Cal blushes and looks down at the ground. “Well, I don’t have enough money to buy my own yet, and all of the school rentals are checked out,” he explains. “So for now I have to use the infamous Gen-Z Edition.” He sheepishly pulls out his cell phone from his pocket. It’s an iPhone 5s in a beat-up Otterbox case.

“I didn’t know you liked taking photos,” I say.

“I love it,” Cal proudly responds. “I’m planning on majoring in photography in college.” He stares down at his phone. “Well… I’m pretty sure I don’t have enough photos from tonight, but I’m also pretty sure Mr. Jones doesn’t want to print any images that look like they’ve been taken with a potato.”

For some reason, Cal’s words make me laugh. He’s actually got a decent sense of humor, and more importantly, he’s genuinely interested in something that isn’t stereotypically nerdy like science or english. Maybe he’s not as bad as people think.

“Here, you can use my phone, if you want,” I offer, holding it out.

Cal stares at me as if I’d just offered him a thousand dollars. He seems to have a habit of staring a lot. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be sitting right in front of you the whole time, I’m not worried,” I say. Okay, maybe I’m a little worried, but based off the fact that Cal’s public label is basically Goody Two Shoes, I highly doubt he is going to do any damage. 

My judgement proves to be correct throughout the rest of the game. Cal stays on the bleachers for a little while, then decides he wants to capture the action at a different angle. He asks if he can take my phone down closer to the field so he can get clearer shots. I give him the go-ahead, feeling glad that he had bothered to ask instead of just running off. By the end of the evening, Cal has taken up my camera roll with dozens of photos; some are clear and some blurry, but nevertheless, each one is interesting in its own right.

“The composition of these is just amazing,” I note, as we make our way to the parking lot. I swipe through the seemingly endless collection. “You’re a photography genius, Cal.”

Cal blushes and looks down. It’s hard to tell through his dark blonde bangs, but I’m pretty sure he’s grinning. 

Just then, Josie and Samantha come rushing over, talking a mile a minute. When they see Cal, they grow quiet.

“Well, um, I, uh, I think I’ll get going,” Cal declares, fumbling in his pockets for his car keys. “It was nice seeing you, Nico. Send me those photos, okay?”

“I don’t think I have your number,” I say.

“Oh, right. That would be useful for you to know, wouldn’t it?” I hand the phone to him and he quickly types in his number. “Alright. See you on Monday.” And with that he walks off, a slight spring in his step.

I look down at the name of the newest contact in my phone and feel the tiniest grin spread across my face. 

CameraMan Cal. 

Of course he would.

“Since when are you friends with Cal Gibson?” Samantha asks, poking my arm. “He’s kind of a dweeb.”

Josie nudges Samantha in the ribs. “What’d I say about making fun of him?” she mutters. But I can see she’s amused.

“He’s totally into you,” Samantha blurts out, giving me a knowing look.

“He’s not.”

“And I quote, ‘Well, um, I, uh,’” Josie says.

It’s true that Cal was doing a lot of stammering, as well as blushing, but I’m pretty sure that’s just how he is on a regular basis. I can’t think of anything else to say so I simply roll my eyes.

Josie drives me back to my house. She and Samantha spend the entire car ride arguing over whether or not Cal and I would make a cute couple. Josie believes that he and I have great chemistry and we’d be “such a power duo”; Samantha believes he’s too academically inclined for me (whatever that means) and that he’d bore me out of my mind. It makes my head spin just listening to them bicker.

Personally, in the back of my mind, I kind of sense that Cal feels something towards me. If he likes me, I suppose it’s not a bad thing - in fact I would be quite flattered - but I don’t think I feel the same way about him. This evening was the most interaction I’ve ever had with Cal, and I just don’t know him well enough to think about the love thing with him. I don’t know. But, I do admit that I really admire his humble demeanor, and how he’s so considerate of other people and their personal property. His strong commitment to school activities is also kind of impressive. I wish I was more like that.

Josie drops me off right before the clock strikes ten-thirty. The house is pitch-black, so I’m assuming everyone is in bed. I hurry upstairs to my bedroom and peel off my red-tinted shirt and jacket, chucking them both in the laundry. My whole body is exhausted beyond belief, so I quickly text Cal the photos before collapsing onto my bedspread, letting the comforter consume me. 


	2. Chapter 2

On Monday, I can sense something new sprouting between me and Cal. In English class, he slides into the empty seat next to me and casually takes out his notebook, acting as if he’s always sat there. When he notices the perplexed look on my face, he gives me a friendly grin. It’s slightly weird having someone sit with me in English class now, but out of a long list of terrible people who could be in that seat, Cal isn’t one of them. So I keep my mouth shut.

Our teacher, Ms. Richardson, announces that we’re beginning a poetry unit, and I feel my chest flutter with excitement. If there’s one thing in the school curriculum that I can bear, it’s learning about poetry. For some reason, I love not having to write in cohesive sentences, and how I can strongly convey a complex idea through several stanzas of metaphors. For me, listening to poetry being read aloud is just as entertaining as listening to my favorite album. The rhythm and expressiveness you get out of spoken poetry is just so incredibly magical.

I look to my left and see Cal looking slightly disgruntled. He’s clearly not as enthused about this as I am.

“Not your favorite unit?” I ask him, playfully poking him in the elbow.

Cal shakes his head. “I’ve never really been fond of it. But I suppose it’s much better than writing in-class essays on _Gatsby_.”

“I thought you liked writing those,” I say.

“Are you kidding me?” Cal replies, raising his eyebrows. “Those essays are the worst thing to come out of this class. Twenty minutes for two pages of thorough analysis? Ms. Richardson is insane.”

By the end of the period, we’ve read through two Robert Frost poems and are instructed to read through a third one for homework. Cal is slightly worried about this, since he apparently doesn’t know anything about poetry, so I agree to give him a hand after school.

Cal catches up to me in the hallway as soon as the last bell rings, signaling the end of the day.

“We can study at a coffee shop, if you want,” he says, while I’m retrieving stuff from my locker. He leans against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I don’t really drink coffee,” I reply.

“Well, I know a good place that serves hot chocolate, as well,” Cal says. “It’s down by my house. I can drive us there.”

“Okay.”

I reach to grab my coat when one of the pictures on the locker door comes loose and falls to the floor. Cal reacts immediately and stoops down to get it. He stares at the photo for a few moments.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

I take a peek. It’s the photo of my sister at the beach, when she was five. Her dark hair is held back from her face with bright red hair clips, and she’s grinning profusely as she scoops up a seashell to present to the camera. It’s my favorite picture of her, including all of the ones we took when she got older. I don’t know. There’s just something about the pure joy that this picture brings me, and how it reminds me that she’ll always be one of the best people I know. Her name is Athena, by the way. She’s in ninth grade now, and she’s the most ridiculous, yet inspiring, sibling I could ask for.  

“My sister,” I answer, a hint of pride in my voice.

“She looks a little like you,” Cal comments, giving the photo one last look before he reattaches it to my locker.

“When we were younger, people always kept asking us if we were twins, even though we looked nothing alike,” I say. “Thankfully, it doesn’t happen anymore. But we’ve always had the same eye shape and hair color.”

“That’s cool. I kind of wish I had a sibling,” Cal says wistfully.

“A lot of the time it’s actually kind of fun.”

We take our time walking to the student parking lot, staring at the lovely, clear blue sky, and soaking in the warm sunlight. Cal leads me to a pale-green car that looks like a relic from decades ago. The car has sleek, round features, and a maroon-colored stripe running horizontally below the windows. But the license plate is the best part: WNTR MNT, it says, in dark green letters.

“ ‘Winter Mint?’” I wonder aloud.

“Yep,” Cal says.

I chuckle. It’s the most peculiar vehicle I’ve ever seen. And for some reason, I love it.

“It’s a 1980s mini-cooper,” Cal explains sheepishly. “It’s gotten passed down in my family ever since my grandparents bought it. If I ever have kids, I’m supposed to pass it down to them once they’re old enough to drive.”

“What if you have more than one kid?” I ask. “Do they have to fight to the death to claim it or something?”

“It’ll go to the one who’s proven to be the most responsible throughout their life,” Cal says. “It can get quite messy sometimes. My mom and my aunt practically ripped each other to shreds when it was their turn to inherit the car. My mom won, which is why the car now belongs to me.” He sighs. “I guess that’s one reason why I’m glad that I don’t have a sibling.”

I can’t even imagine fighting with Athena over a car. The most we fight about is who gets to take the dinner leftovers into school for lunch the next day.

Cal and I climb into the front seat, which looks like one big leather booth at a diner. The inside of the car smells like coffee and paper and something else that I can’t quite name. There’s a cat keychain hanging from the rearview mirror, and the dashboard is covered in faded stickers. I look in the backseat and, to my surprise, it’s completely tidy. The only things back there are an umbrella and a box of tissues, but the umbrella is tucked neatly under the driver’s seat, and the tissues are unopened, sitting untouched in the seat behind me.

“I didn’t know you were so organized,” I say, as Cal starts the ignition.

“Yeah… I don’t particularly like living in a mess,” Cal says, putting the car into reverse.

Here is the very first rule of riding in a car with Cal Gibson - _always_ wear your seatbelt if he’s in the driver’s seat. Cal may be practical and smart,  but his driving is the exact opposite. I’m being thrown around the passenger’s seat as Cal jerkily drives us out of the parking lot and onto the street, slowing down and speeding up at the most unconventional moments.

“So, um, tell me again why you inherited this car?” I question him, fumbling for the seatbelt. I find it, and buckle myself in before Cal does something that could actually kill me.

“My mom thought it was a good idea,” Cal replies, shrugging. He swivels the steering wheel to the left, which sends me crashing into the passenger door.

Miraculously, ourselves and the car all arrive at the coffee shop in one piece. The place is called Alder’s Coffee House, and the walls are bare wood with framed art prints hanging everywhere. The lights are Edison-style, with a single bright bulb dangling from the ceiling every few feet. It all looks like something straight out of a hipster dining catalog.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Cal says. “Do you want anything?”

Soon, we’re sitting on a soft brown couch, drinking hot chocolate from mugs that are decorated in gold patterns. The familiar coffee shop noises turn into some sort of soothing rhythm, and are somehow in tune with the jazz music that’s quietly playing from the speakers. This whole setting is incredibly relaxing, especially after the car ride I just experienced, and I truly believe I could sit here forever.

“I still can’t believe you got white hot chocolate,” Cal notes, poking my arm. He emphasizes the word before _hot_ , but it’s not in an unfriendly way.

“What’s wrong with that? It tastes good,” I say, grinning. “Hey, did you know that white chocolate doesn’t contain caffeine, so I can drink this at any point in the day without worrying about getting a caffeine buzz?” I take a sip. “It’s also got significantly more calcium, so that means I’ll have extra-strong bones when I’m forty-five.”

Cal laughs. “Well, I don’t know if that last part is true, since it’s got a ton of sugar in it as well,” he says.

“I’m not making fun of you for ordering a _raspberry-infused_ hot chocolate, am I?” I say, giving him a knowing look.

Cal rolls his eyes and does the worst imitation of me ever: “It tastes good!”

We double over with laughter.

“By the way, you’ve got a kind of milk mustache now,” Cal observes. He grabs a napkin and gently wipes the residue off of my lips.

I stare at him, and I can feel my cheeks growing hot. He could’ve just handed me the napkin for me to wipe it off myself, but no. He did the cheesy gentleman thing and did it for me.

He tilts his head to the side. “Did I get something on my face, too?” he asks. “Because you’re staring.”

“Uh, no, you’re fine,” I stutter, trying my best to keep cool. “Your face is all clear.” I give him a weak thumbs-up.

Cal sighs. “Ah, well I guess that’s too bad.” He brushes his bangs out of his eyes and flashes a shy smile.

 _That’s too bad_ . What in the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?

“We should probably get to work on finding some poems,” I blurt out.

“Alright, let’s do that.”

The first twenty minutes are quite productive, as we browse our English textbooks for Robert Frost poems. I eventually choose _Fire and Ice_ ; Cal chooses _The Flood_. Once the poems are chosen, the schoolwork is abandoned, and we end up talking about all of these weird facts that Cal somehow knows. One weird fact he brings up is about how bankers sometimes have therapists known as “wealth psychologists” that help extra-rich clients who are unable to cope with their immense wealth.

“That sounds fake,” I say.

“No, it’s completely real. My mom works at a bank that has a wealth psychologist.”

“That’s interesting.”

“What do your parents do?”

I stare at him. “Oh, so we’re playing Twenty Questions now, are we?”

“Only if you want to.” Cal’s answer is so innocent. I’m assuming that he has missed the hint of sarcasm buried in my question.

I have no other option than to play this game with him. I sigh and lean my head against the wall. “Well, my dad’s a lawyer, and my stepmom is this supposedly really famous brain surgeon.”

“Brain surgeons can be famous?” Cal looks at me skeptically.

“Apparently so.”

He nods and brushes his hair out of his eyes. Something in my chest twists, but I choose to ignore it. “Your turn,” he says.

I think for a second. “Do you prefer Reese’s cups or Skittles?”

“Reese’s cups. Do you wear socks at night when you sleep?”

“Definitely not. What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

“Gardening with my great-grandmother.” He gives his response without hesitation. This boy is too pure for this world. “For you: _least_ favorite childhood memory?”

“Choking on a dozen green grapes.”

I’m so casual, that Cal is actually startled. “How in the world…?”

“You ever heard of the Chubby Bunny game?”

“I’m familiar with it, yes.”

“My sister and I may or may not have bet twenty dollars to see who would win, and I was so desperate for the money that I crammed too many grapes into my mouth and almost died. Went to the emergency room and everything. I’ve despised green grapes ever since.”

“But green grapes are amazing!” Cal exclaims. “I’m sure that experience hasn’t scarred you _that_ much.”

“Nope. Green grapes are ruined for me forever,” I reply, giving him a smug look.

Cal rolls his eyes, but I can see that he’s entertained. “Okay, so green grapes are a huge no-no. Did you end up winning those twenty dollars, though?”

“Most definitely.”

The rest of the afternoon zips by, and it’s almost six o’clock when I finally say goodbye to Cal. He drops me off at my house, leaving me with a pat on the shoulder and an aching twist in my chest.

…That feeling in my chest again. I don’t know why I’m experiencing it, but it’s fully present, engaging all of my senses and making my heart pound louder than a bongo drum.

No matter how hard I try, this time I am unable to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awkward pining cuban boy is pining 
> 
> PS- Nico is a beast at chubby bunny fyi (he still plays it, but with marshmallows instead of grapes)


End file.
